


Fenris and that First Night - a Hawkeling Tales drabble

by sporksoma



Series: Hawkeling Tales [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, F/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-18 03:17:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11282688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sporksoma/pseuds/sporksoma
Summary: Fenris comes back from the tavern the first night Anders is staying with Hawke and Orana in the Grunding House.  He's had a little bit too much to drink and overhears something he shouldn't have; angst and argument ensues.





	Fenris and that First Night - a Hawkeling Tales drabble

**Author's Note:**

> This will not make any sense unless you've read A Hawkeling Tale, the series this drabble was taken from.

“I’m cuttin’ you off, Fenris.  You’ll be no good to Mistress Mary in the mornin’ if you keep putting them back like that.  And with her brother there, you need to be extra sharp.”

Fenris eyed the barkeeper with no small amount of irritation.  He hadn’t come here to get lectured about how to best serve _Mistress Mary_ ; he had come here to get away from the household with the abomination in it, making those _eyes_ at Hawke, leaving no doubt that he wanted to be more than just her doctor for the duration of her pregnancy.

Pregnancy.  That alone made Fenris want to drink, but if he was being cut off now, he would pay his tab and go.  Reaching into his coin purse, he pulled out a handful of silver and left it there, next to his empty mug, and wandered out the door.  Fool barkeep; he could have gotten a better tip than that if he didn’t keep cutting Fenris off.

But Grunding was like that.  It was a nice town, even Fenris had to admit.  They all tended to look after their own.  They gossiped like fishwives on Sunday, but even so, they were nice enough people, and _Mistress Mary_ was already well thought of there.  But that was Hawke, wasn’t it?  No matter where she went or what she did, she always won people over to her side quickly.  It was part of her charm.  No one could deny the woman had charisma.  Except, perhaps, Hawke herself.

Fenris stumbled over the cobble-stoned streets, wishing he had thought to bring a cloak with him.  It was raining, and when he got back to the little cottage, he would have to dig through his trunk to get out dry clothes.  But that meant going into the room with Anders and admitting Anders was actually there, and Fenris cursed luridly at the idea he would have anything at all to do with Anders tonight.

Perhaps…. Perhaps there _was_ some jealousy there.  But why not?  The man was obviously lusting after the woman who was carrying Fenris’s child.  Even if he had no relationship with Hawke beyond that of friends, or whatever they were, it didn’t stop Fenris’s feelings for her.  Feelings he had been trying to ignore for the last several weeks, and feelings that didn’t seem to want to go away.  In fact, the longer he spent with Hawke, the more the desire to express those feelings grew.  She wasn’t even showing yet and Fenris wanted to rub his hands over her abdomen, and press his lips to the hollow of her throat, and make her sing.  That first night, that one night they had together, that would be repeated, except Fenris knew Hawke’s body better this time, and he could bring her better pleasure…

He shook his head, and raindrops fell from his damp hair onto his face, trailing down his cheeks like tears.  He would do nothing of the sort, especially not with the _abomination_ there in the household.  He could barely say two civil words to Hawke as it was, simply because he didn’t know _what_ to say.  He wanted her.  He wanted her to want him.  He wanted the abomination gone.  He could even do without Orana, for all that she made the little household run smoothly, and cooked well.  He could keep Hawke there, in the little Grunding cottage, wrapped up like a Satinalia present, just for himself.

His head swam with all the ale he had put away –and it was stronger here, more potent, than that swill at The Hanged Man, he was happy to admit that.  Finally, a tavern that didn’t cheat its customers too much.  Grunding must be a paradise.  He pushed the damp hair out of his face and tried to feel for the key to the house in his belt pouch.  It was late enough that he doubted Hawke would still be up; she tired easily, lately, and sometimes retired shortly after dinner.  But this was his house, too, in a way, or more his house than it was Anders’s, and he wasn’t going to let the abomination be the one to let him inside.  No, he would use his key, like a man.

The key finally found, it took three tries before he got the door unlocked properly, all the while being rained on.  His tunic was damp all the way through, and his feet were muddy.  If Hawke were up, he would ask her to conjure up some warm water for him to bathe them in, but there was no way he was waking her up just for that.  He would simply have to clean them off with toweling as best possible before getting into bed.  He didn’t want to get the sheets _too_ muddy, after all; it was the women who did the laundry, and that included the bedding and he didn’t want to cause them any more work than they had to do already.

He blinked at the darkness, and touched a hand to his head.  Definitely drunker than he had thought he was.  Perhaps the barkeep was right, then, to send him on home.  Still, Fenris was a free man, and an adult, and should be able to make his own rules about when he came home from the tavern.  He was a man with a child on the way, after all; surely, he was responsible enough to make that decision for himself.

He locked the door behind himself, somehow managing, on the second try, to get the key back in his belt pouch, when his ears picked up noise from upstairs.  It sounded like moaning.  His sword was up in his room, and he would have little time to reach it if Hawke were being attacked.  Slowly, Fenris crept up the stairs, listening out for whoever was doing the attacking, until he was halfway up them and picked out the _nature_ of the moaning.

He stopped on the stairwell and felt his cheeks flush, and quietly cursed his damnable sensitive ears.  That was his Hawke, _Marian_ , in there, with… with… the abomination!  Another moan, audible through the door and halfway down the stairs, and Fenris had to grip the bannister, hard, to keep himself from barging in there and killing the abomination right then.  Jealousy surged through him, hot, fierce, and he felt altogether too warm and too cold at the same time.

It was apparent that he would not be going into his room for a while –although he damned himself for not interrupting them, damned his cowardice _again_ for getting in the way between himself and Hawke—and so he waited, downstairs.  His eyes picked up better what little light was in the downstairs area, and he found himself sitting at the little kitchen table, in wet things, with dripping hair.

It was all too long a time before Hawke finally came out of the room, like he had hoped she would.  He was almost afraid she would spend the night in there with the abomination, and Fenris did not know what he would do, then.  She started towards her room, he could tell from the creaking of the floorboards, and then decided against it and started downstairs instead, slowly.  She made her way through the dark to the back door when Fenris could stand it no longer.  He strode to her and grabbed her arm in the dark, only to be met with a surprised sound and a mind blast that shoved him away from her.  He tripped and landed on his back, roughly, in the living area of the house, and then a white-blue ball of light came into being above Hawke’s hand.

“Fenris?” she said, kneeling down beside him.  “Maker, Fenris, I expected you back hours ago.”

“I’ve been back long enough,” he muttered, and pushed her away from him.  “I _heard_ , Hawke.  I heard you and the abomination.”  The accusation was mixed thick with drink in his voice, and it caused her to scowl sharply, her face washed out in the harsh glare of the magelight.

“Whatever you heard, Fenris, is none of your business,” she told him, matter-of-fact. “If you wanted me... you had months to make up your mind about that.”

“You think it’s so simple,” he slurred, holding himself up off the floor by dint of the fact that he was grabbing the sofa.  “You think it’s that easy, Hawke, but it’s not.  You’re… You’re like this light.  I can’t hold it.  I don’t _deserve_ it.”  He half-sobbed, brushing his hair out of his face, staring at her, accusing and angry.  “You have never come across something you wanted but could not have, did not deserve, Hawke.”

She sighed and slipped her feet into the shoes.  “Fenris, I need the privy.  You’re drunk.  Go to bed.”

He spat on the floor.  “I’ll not sleep in that room, with him.  Not after _that_.”

Hawke lost her temper, then.  “Then sleep in the shed with the mule.  At least it’ll have another ass to keep it company.”  She closed the door behind herself more roughly than she intended to, he thought, and Fenris sat on the edge of the sofa, his face in his palms and his elbows on his knees.  He hadn’t wanted to make her angry.  Maker, he hadn’t wanted any of this.  He had only wanted to come home and sleep, and be closer to the day that the abomination went back to Kirkwall and things got back to their little bit of normal.

Slowly, he got up, and went to the hall closet upstairs, rummaging around until he came out with a quilt.  He would not, _would not_ , sleep in there with the abomination.  Surely, he was still awake, and if he went in there, Fenris would be haunted by the sounds of her moaning, and the smell of sex, and the knowledge that she was with the abomination in there and not he himself.  No, he would sleep on the sofa, and by the time Hawke came back in from using the privy, Fenris was feigning sleep, his muddy feet hanging off the end of the sofa, the quilt covering the rest of him. 

He heard Hawke sigh, and then arrange another couple of logs for the fire.  He felt guilt run through him, then; Hawke shouldn’t be lifting up the logs to put on the fire.  But it touched him that she thought to do such a thing, and for him.  If she cared for him, why would she bed the abomination? 

And if he cared for her, why could he just not tell her?  He lay there thinking that, long after she went upstairs and to her room, and long after the buzz of alcohol had worn off his brain.


End file.
